Saved
by rizandace
Summary: "Aziraphale. Do you trust me?" Crowley placed his hands firmly on the angel's shoulders. "Yes," Aziraphale replied quickly. Then he seemed to realize what he'd just admitted. "Oh. I – yes. Yes, I do trust you. Interesting." Hell comes to give Crowley his punishment, but it's not what's expecting. Rated T for violence.


**I wrote a thing. I like it. I don't own _Good Omens_. That makes me sad. Please drop a note and let me know what you think. :)**

* * *

The nice thing about Hell was that the administration didn't boast a large amount of creativity. Not that being strung up to a rack in the blazing pits of Hell was a picnic. Torture was torture, after all. After the whole apocalypse-that-wasn't, Crowley had been sure that he was in for at least a century of slicing knives and roasting flesh. Not a thrilling prospect, of course. But at least it was predictable. And inevitable.

Being a demon, Crowley was a big fan of postponing the inevitable.

"You're over-reacting," Aziraphale said. He sounded exasperated, but Crowley detected the angel's normal hint of fondness towards him.

"Oh, am I? _You've_ never even _been _to Hell." Crowley was packing a suitcase. Three pairs of dark sunglasses were placed gently into the folds of his clothes. Packing was a rather human habit, but Crowley didn't really mind the comparisons any longer.

"I'm just saying – I think our friend Adam Young sort of… reset things for us." Aziraphale was leaning against a windowsill in Crowley's London apartment. When Crowley looked up and met the angel's eye, Aziraphale turned red. It had taken a few days for Aziraphale to even be able to _meet_ Crowley's eye after the incident.

Adam Young had left a few gifts for those involved in the Almost-End-of-the-World. One of those gifts was total knowledge, which meant that they _all_ knew about Newt and Anathema's night of passion, and they _all_ knew about Adam's loyalty to his gang. And Aziraphale knew that Crowley had run into a burning building for him.

There was one rule to their arrangement, and it was as follows: They were best friends, and would never speak of it.

Crowley was better at masking embarrassment than Aziraphale, but thus far neither of them had mentioned that act of heroism on the part of an apparently dark and evil demon.

Crowley snapped his suitcase shut abruptly. "Adam Young may have reset the world, but Hell holds grudges." He narrowed his eyes and added, darkly, "believe me."

* * *

Crowley stayed "on the run" for three months. He drove the Bentley to every corner of the world, never staying anywhere for more than a night. Aziraphale grumbled to him on the phone about how _ridiculous_ he was being, and eventually, the angel wore him down. The apartment in London was actually a comfort when he returned, and drinking the night away with Aziraphale in the bookshop was even more so.

Their "I miss you's" were of course entirely unspoken, but they were there.

Hell wasn't creative, and they weren't big on delay. Crowley had toyed with the idea that perhaps they were keeping him in suspense to heighten the torture, but honestly he didn't think Hastur and the others were capable of intelligent treachery.

So… maybe Aziraphale was right. Maybe nothing was coming for him, after all.

Aziraphale was rather inquisitive for an angel. During one particularly dark and stormy night, nearly six months after the Not-End-of-the-World, he asked Crowley a question: "What's it like?"

Crowley was immersed in listening to a piece by Beethoven on Aziraphale's ancient, crackling turn-table. They were in the angel's back room, drinking expensive wine and enjoying a relaxing evening. "Hm?"

"Hell. What's it like?"

Crowley peeled his eyes open slowly, removed his feet from their rest atop the table, sat up straight, and set his wine glass down, inches away from a waiting coaster. Aziraphale glared half-heartedly.

"What possible reason could you have for wanting to know?" Crowley asked.

Aziraphale shrugged. "Well… it's only that you've seen Heaven. You know the score. I feel rather left out."

Crowley picked up the wine glass once more and drained it. "You shouldn't," he said flatly. Generally, Aziraphale and Crowley did not discuss the fact that that they were on opposite sides. It tended to make both parties uncomfortable.

"Hell is… Hell, Aziraphale. Why do you think I'm so keen to avoid it?"

When the angel next spoke, his voice was soft. "What will they do to you?" A pause. "If –if they come. Which of course they probably won't."

Crowley allowed himself a flicker of a smile at Aziraphale's attempt at reassurance. "The usual, I suppose. Torture. Knives and fire." Aziraphale went pale, and Crowley shrugged. "It's not… well, yes it _is_ so bad, but eventually they grow bored."

"Well," Aziraphale managed. "Well, they won't come for you, I'm sure. It's been a long time since… since what happened. Oh, I'm sure they won't come."

"THAT IZZ INCORRECT," said Aziraphale's record player. The angel jumped a foot in the air, his chair clattering to the floor. Crowley felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He shot Aziraphale a look of warning and placed a finger over his lips. _Let me do the talking_.

"Well. Beelzebub. You've finally gotten around to paying me a visit."

"YEZZ. HELLO, CRAWLY. I HOPE YOU HAVE ENJOYED YOUR FINAL MOMENTZZ OF PEAZZE."

Crowley shrugged, and looked at Aziraphale, who was standing in paralyzed fear off to the right of Crowley's chair. "Can't complain."

"YOU ARE READY FOR YOUR PUNISHMENT." It was hardly a question, and Crowley felt himself slump down in his chair, defeated.

"Might as well get this over with," Crowley muttered.

"N – " Aziraphale changed his mind half way through the word of denial and chose instead just to stare at Crowley in horror.

"It's off to Hell we go, then?" Crowley asked the turn-table.

"THAT IZZ INCORRECT."

"What?" Angel and Demon spoke as one.

"YOUR PUNISHMENT TAKEZZ PLACE ON EARTH." The old record player cracked with the force of Beelzebub's words. Aziraphale looked politely puzzled, but Crowley began to get the feeling that things were about to go very wrong. Since when did Hell go around changing things up?

"What, are you just going to kill me?" Crowley asked. The casual tone of his voice sounded horribly false. Aziraphale made a choking noise and grabbed the back of Crowley's chair tightly.

"NO. NO ONE WILL BE KILLING YOU." Aziraphale's grip on the chair loosened slightly. These words seemed to comfort the angel. But Crowley had noticed the emphasis. It had not been on the word "killing." It had been on the word "you."

Crowley felt himself freeze in shock for a moment as the implications of this sank in. "Oh." He coughed slightly. "_Oh._"

"What is it?" Aziraphale asked.

By the time Crowley managed to croak out a weak "Don't you dare touch him" in the direction of the turn-table, Beelzebub had gone, and Beethoven had resumed.

* * *

Crowley remembered a time back in the late nineteenth century when he and Aziraphale had gone to an opera somewhere in France. Aziraphale had insisted on attending because one of "his people" was performing. Crowley did not mind operas as a rule, but Aziraphale's eager enthusiasm for the event was such that Crowley had practically no choice but to fight the angel every step of the way.

But, as they both knew would happen, the angel got the devil to show up, in the end. They had both detested the show, and had spent the entire evening making pointed faces at one another and trying not to let their smirks dissolve into laughter. It had been a highly entertaining night.

This, of all things, was the image that popped into Crowley's head after Beelzebub took his leave from Aziraphale's cramped back room. It took him a few moments of stunned horror before he became aware that the angel was speaking to him, but eventually he managed to focus in on his words.

"Crowley? Crowley, for God's sake, what's going on? What did that… that… thing mean? If you're not going to Hell, isn't that… well, forgive me, but isn't that a _good_ thing? And if they don't plan to kill you – "

"You need to run," Crowley said softly. It was a simple thought, and it was the one thing that managed to permeate the fog of fear that had enveloped him. Slowly, suddenly feeling every second of his six thousand years, he stood.

"I – what?" Aziraphale looked startled.

"Aziraphale. Do you trust me?" Crowley placed his hands firmly on the angel's shoulders.

"Yes," Aziraphale replied quickly. Then he seemed to realize what he'd just admitted. "Oh. I – yes. Yes, I _do_ trust you. Interesting."

"Yes, yes. Miraculous. Listen to me. You need to run."

"You're not making sense," Aziraphale said. Crowley could tell he was trying to sound only passingly concerned, but there was a hint of real anxiety creeping into his voice.

"I – please. If you trust me, you'll go. You're not safe here. Maybe upstairs. Heaven. They could protect you."

"Explain yourself!" Aziraphale took an angry step backwards, breaking contact with Crowley.

The demon heaved an impatient sigh and turned away, running a hand through his hair as he did so. "They – my people, I mean… they're coming after you."

The room was silent. Beethoven seemed to grow softer, as if he too was listening to this conversation.

"Why?" Aziraphale finally managed.

"Torture." Crowley's voice was clipped and anxious. He didn't have the time to spell this out for the angel. He needed to get as far away from earth as possible, and _fast_.

"Torture – but – but… why would they be punishing _me_?" Aziraphale spluttered. "I'm not one of theirs!"

"They're not punishing you. Well, I mean, they are. But that's not what they care about."

"I don't…"

"They're going to make me watch you die, slow and painful. They're punishing _me_, Aziraphale," Crowley snapped. "Please. Just get out of here before it's too late."

The angel let that sink in for a long moment. He coughed and looked away from Crowley, extraordinarily embarrassed. "Oh. Crowley, I – "

"_Go!_"

"It's not that simple. I need authorization from a higher power in order to go back. I'm… I'm _stationed_ here. On earth. I'm not meant to leave."

Crowley allowed a vile curse to slip out of his lips in a hiss. "You can't do anything?" he demanded.

Aziraphale seemed truly frightened now. He took a few steps closer to Crowley. "What are they going to do to me?"

"_Nothing!_" Crowley snapped. He blinked a couple of times and became suddenly aware of the look of terror on Aziraphale's face. "Nothing," he repeated, voice soft. "I won't let them." It was a hollow promise, but the angel was grateful for the words nonetheless.

"Should I… request permission to ascend?" Aziraphale asked hesitantly. "I mean – it will take time, but…"

Crowley sighed, rubbing a weary hand through his hair. "I imagine we've only got seconds left, so – "

Sure enough, a flash of light filled the bookshop. Under normal circumstances, Crowley would have run screaming. But today… it was a strange day indeed when a demon shifted his stance to stand protectively in front of an angel. It was merely a symbolic gesture, of course. They both knew that Crowley was useless against –

"HELLO, CRAWLY."

"Beelzebub. Leave him alone." The demon had no patience for his normal clever jibes. He had been terrified for his own well-being plenty of times in the past. It was quite a different experience to be terrified for the sake of someone else.

Beelzebub laughed. It was an unnatural, grating sound – straight from Hell. Crowley had his eyes on the Higher Demon, so he didn't see Aziraphale's kneecaps shatter. But he heard it.

A sharp crack, a thunk as the angel folded forward onto the ground, and a surprised, stuttered exclamation of shock and pain. Crowley felt his mind start to unravel. It was all happening – _right now_ – he turned around to go to Aziraphale, but was despairingly aware that he was powerless. Beelzebub was still laughing. Ropes appeared out of nowhere and bound Crowley tight. He was thrown against the wall, a mere six feet from Aziraphale, but more helpless than he'd felt in his entire existence.

There was another snap. Aziraphale's arm.

"Stop!" Crowley didn't know why he was bothering. The room was still growing brighter, and two lower-level Demons strolled through the brightness, grabbing at Aziraphale roughly.

"Let me go!" Aziraphale, bless him, was trying to sound authoritative. His voice was shaking too badly for it to work all that well. "Immediately!"

The ropes holding Crowley bound were tight, cutting into his arms and legs. Nevertheless, he surged forward against his bindings. "Beelzebub, damn it! He doesn't have anything to do with this! Let him go!"

"HE IZZ THE ONLY THING YOU CARE ABOUT MORE THAN YOUR ZZELF. HE HAZZ EVERYTHING TO DO WITH THIZZ."

"I am so sorry," Crowley said to Aziraphale. "I am so, _so_ sorry, I – "

"Don't trouble yourself, dear," the angel grunted through the pain of being forced to his feet. "It's not your faul – Ah!" One of the demons had just sucker-punched Aziraphale in the stomach, and the angel doubled over to nearly 90 degrees.

What followed was without a doubt the worst hour in both of their lives.

There was a lot of yelling. Beelzebub and the other two demons yelled in delight. Aziraphale yelled – screamed – in pain. And Crowley yelled in desperation.

"_Stop_! Take me, just leave him alone. I'm sorry. I'm sorry! Put me on the rack – he doesn't deserve this! _Stop_."

The words lost meaning after a while. Crowley thought maybe be was crying. He felt – blame. Guilt. Pain. In a flash of strange insight, he realized he meant what he was saying:

"Take me," he repeated. His voice had dropped to a hoarse whisper. Crowley, self-centered Demon from Hell, was thinking of personal torture as a happy alternative to watching Aziraphale suffer.

"YOU MIZZ THE POINT, CRAWLY."

Aziraphale let out another yelp of fresh pain.

"Help me," Crowley heard himself say. He wasn't sure who he was talking to. It certainly wasn't to anyone in the room – he was alone in this fight, and he knew it. But he felt the need to ask. "Help him." His voice was hoarse. Defeated. He felt his head slump on his shoulders and it took a herculean effort to raise his eyes to meet his angels'.

"I'm – perfectly – alright, my dear – I – " Aziraphale couldn't get more than a word out without cringing in pain. He was on his knees at this point and couldn't seem to support any of his own weight. The demons who were administering the torture were holding him upright. And yet, through all of that, he was trying to _comfort_ the man responsible for putting him in this position in the first place. "Crowley, this isn't – _ah_ – your – concern – you are _not_ – _ungh!_ – to blame – " He broke off in a choking gasp and Crowley's eyes snapped shut involuntarily.

"_Please_. Don't let him suffer like this."

Later, Crowley couldn't quite remember where the light had come from. It seemed to permeate the air around him. It burned but in a way that made him feel safe, like dying would be a fun dive into a pool of warm and gentle sunshine. Like he wanted to die, but this thought was not sad or distressing.

The first thing to change was that the ropes binding Crowley suddenly fell to the ground and shattered into nothingness. Crowley barely had time to marvel at his new freedom when the two lower demons vanished as well – he made it across the room just in time to catch the suddenly limp Aziraphale. The two of them made twin noises – "oof!" as the light grew brighter and better.

Beelzebub made a strangled hiss of protest but Crowley couldn't really bother to listen to it – he heard something else, instead. Not quite a voice, but it was certainly _saying_ something, and somehow he knew with certainty that Aziraphale could hear it as well. It was telling him that he could be calm. That the struggle was over.

The light gathered strength until its brightness became painful to the extreme, and then it vanished, with a suddenness that left angel and demon reeling.

For a few moments, Crowley was still and silent, letting the memory of the light and the sounds wash over him, but then Aziraphale made a small noise of pain and Crowley snapped back to attention, maneuveringthe angel into what he hoped was a more comfortable position.

"Hey. _Hey_. Are you alright?"

Aziraphale coughed a bit, looking up at Crowley with bleary eyes, still tense from pain. "I'm - They stopped."

Crowley felt an uncharacteristic lump in his throat. He almost shot back with a typical sarcastic reply, but there could be no pretense between them now - Aziraphale knew _exactly_ what he meant to the supposedly emotionless demon.

"Yes. But I don't understand how that's possible - what _was_ that - light?"

Aziraphale began to stand, wincing with the effort. Crowley helped to ease him to his feet and then to lower him into a nearby armchair. Hesitantly, the demon pulled away a bit of the tattered remains of Aziraphale's shirt, inspecting the jagged cuts beneath. They didn't seem as bad as Crowley had imagined, and the longer he looked, the less serious they seemed. And... was Aziraphale's breath starting to sound a bit less labored?

"God."

Aziraphale's voice sounded peaceful - a significant change from his screams of anguish only a few moments before. Crowley's stomach clenched anew at the memory of the blood streaming down his friend's face and chest, the sound of bones shattering, the panic in those kind eyes…

"Excuse me?"

"My injuries are fading. Look." Crowley did, ignoring the copious amounts of wet blood on Aziraphale's clothing to examine the skin beneath. The lacerations were barely visible, and they became less so even as Crowley watched.

"_How_?!"

"I told you. God."

"God did this for you? I didn't think he paid personal visits to his angels."

Aziraphale stood suddenly, forcing Crowley backwards and away. Embarrassed, Crowley realized that he had been gripping the angel's shirtfronts, and quickly dropped them, shocked at the expression of exuberance on Aziraphale's face.

"He didn't do it for _me_, Crowley."

The implication was impossible to miss, but Crowley just blinked, feeling more than slightly dazed. "What?"

"God game because _you asked for help_." The grin on Aziraphale's face was beginning to look ridiculous. He took a few steps forward and grabbed Crowley by the shoulders, spinning him around and letting out a laugh. It was a strangely horrifying sound, juxtaposed with the blood-drenched clothing still hanging off of the angel's newly healed body.

"No. I'm… a demon. I'm a _snake_."

"You're saved!"

"No!"

"Don't be silly, my dear. This is wonderful news!"

"_No it's not!"_

Aziraphale's smile slid off his face like dripping molasses. He stared at his friend for a moment, and then released him and stepped back. Crowley felt something in his stomach clench. He wasn't feeling the relieved-yet-confused feeling that Aziraphale had been experiencing just moments before. He just felt fear. And he couldn't stop the next words from pouring forward. Couldn't stop himself from saying what he knew would break both of their hearts.

"No. I don't _want_ to be saved. I don't want to be one of you."

Aziraphale said nothing.

Crowley walked away.

_(It would be another four years, by earth's measure, before the two would speak again. Crowley would have nightmares about Aziraphale's broken body, and Aziraphale would hear Crowley's frightened "No it's not!" whenever a room grew too quiet. When they ran into each other in London on a crowded side street on a cold December evening, Aziraphale would smile, call him "dear," and then fall silent. Crowley would shrug and announce that without the apocalypse, there really was no point in their being on different teams. Heaven and Hell were superfluous, nowadays. And they would go to Crowley's apartment and drink until neither of them could remember all the time alone.)_

Heaven and Hell were superfluous, Crowley said.

God saved him anyway.

* * *

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